“Bastard!” Bongani curses aloud. “My children? My money?”
“What children?” Nomsa asks from behind, and for a moment Bongani runs out of words. “What the hell are you talking about? Hhe, Bongani? Are you trying to tell me that you have children I do not know about?” Nomsa starts to feel hot. “Oh my God! What is happening to me? Why this now?”
“It’s not like that. The thing is—”
“Shut up! You’re lying about something!”
Bongani begs his wife to calm down and promises to tell her the whole story, which he does. He tells her how having children is so important to him, and what he has done to try to get them.
“Do you even love me?” she asks. “Or is all you care about children?”
“Of course I do! Why do you think I am still committed to you and don’t have a child with someone else? You are so precious to me that I can’t think of not creating this special thing with you. Children are a blessing.”
Nomsa sits down beside her husband. “It is time that we are honest with each other. I will tell you the actual reason why I am resolved not to have children.”
15
“For as long as I can remember, I have not been a complete person,” Nomsa says. “There has always been a void in me and I want you to understand. Perhaps then I will be able to be a human being again. I always ask myself why the Living Ghost chose me? Maybe this is a question I will keep asking but will find no answer to.
“It all started when I was about six years old. I did not know what it was then. My father used to be so interested in me, offering to wash me and all. I did believe he loved me as he always said when he wanted to spend time with me. I remember that when he washed me, he took time touching my private parts. I did not worry too much because I did not know what it meant. Every time he got a chance he would offer to wash me. Even when I refused, saying that I could wash myself, he insisted. I think that Mother was pleased at first because she believed it proved that he loved me. This went on for a long time and I was getting used to it. Then he started to do other things. When he washed me, he would sit me on his lap, making sure that I touched his private parts.
“I was eight when he began to take out his penis. I remember that he used to let me sit with my legs wide open so my private parts touched his. I began to feel uneasy about this. As young as I was I just knew that something was wrong about what he did to me. What worried me even more, though, is that it felt good when he did it. Even today I still hate myself for ever feeling like that.
“He would always stop once he had peed on me, though of course it wasn’t really pee. It just seemed that way because I was so young. I could see that every time he peed he changed, becoming agitated and afraid. I started to hate and fear him. He told me that what he did was our special secret. I was not supposed to tell anyone. I was not supposed to tell, even in my dreams.
“But the worst was yet to come. I was ten when I told my mother that I did not want my father to wash me any more. She asked me why and I did not tell her the truth. I said I was grown enough to wash myself. When Mother told him to not wash me any more, I could see that he was really angry. But he pretended he was only disappointed because he was trying to help me. Our relationship started to be tenser now. He knew I said what I said because I knew what he did to me was wrong.
“Then one day he came to my room. I could tell by the look in his eyes that something was really amiss. There was something evil on his mind. At first he started by trying to be nice, telling me that he loved me very much. He said I was his favourite little girl and I would always be special to him. It was a hot day and I was only wearing a light skirt with nothing on top. After going on about his love for me, he started to touch me, trying to get my skirt off at the same time. I began to cry and told him to leave me alone. Now he had become a fearsome person who looked like a stranger to me. I thought the devil had taken over. I cried even louder and soon realised that it was useless because there was nobody home who could hear me. The devil had chosen his timing perfectly. I tried to push his hands off me but he was too strong. He managed to put his hands under my panties while he held me down with his other hand. He kept telling me that it was okay. He was not going to hurt me. I struggled until I completely ran out of strength. He took off my pants and … all I can say is the man killed me that day.
“When he was finished he told me not to tell anyone. I told him I was going to tell Mother, but he said she would not believe me, nobody would believe a lying little whore like me. I told him to go to hell, but he laughed at me, saying he would gladly go when the time was right. I was hurt and hopeless. He knew that he had won and so he kept doing it whenever he felt like it or got a chance.
“One day I did tell Mother but, as he had said, she did not believe me. She went to ask him if it was true and he said I was crazy, that I hated him and so I was making up lies about him. She only believed my story when I was fourteen and got pregnant. I could see that she was hoping I would say I had had sex with another boy, but I kept telling her that it was him. My father was the father of the child I was carrying. She then suggested we get rid of the baby, which we did. It was after that that I vowed never to have a child again. In honour of my dead baby.”
“But you should have told me,” Bongani says. “I would not have pushed you and tried all these ploys to get children. If I had known all of this I would have been a different man towards you.”
As they drive back home Nomsa is silent, thinking about what Bongani has told her about Sgonyela’s medicines. Can that black medicine really work? Can it be the reason for the dreams she has been having? Dreams of her unborn baby, begging her to be taken home. Can it be the reason for the nausea she has been feeling in the mornings recently?
She recalls a story her grandmother told her about a couple who consulted an inyanga when they were unable to have children. As a result, they got a son who turned out to be something very scary. At the age of six months he started to steal raw meat and eat it. When they went to ask the inyanga what was wrong with the baby he told them that he had given them one of his children – one who had become a problem for him. The inyanga told them not to complain. They had asked for a child and he had given them one.
Nomsa is worried. Will whatever is growing inside her be human or will it be something created by Sgonyela’s potions?
16
“Here is your supper, my husband. Please enjoy yourself,” MaDuma says as she places the tray on the coffee table. Priest feels happy when he sees his food. He is tired. He has been working all day planting in his garden. “Thank you. You do not know how hungry I am,” he says and takes away the plate covering his food. His face changes when he sees that it is only pap.
“You are making a fool out of me!” Priest shouts, gesturing with his open hand at the food.
“Oh! My God! Didn’t I bring a glass of water?” MaDuma comes back to look at her husband’s food. “But it’s here,” she says coolly.
“You mean water?”
“Yes, Sandile’s father. I thought you would use it to help your food down. There is no other way.” MaDuma seats herself on another sofa, across from her husband. “Eat uphuthu and drink water. And enjoy.” She smiles.
“You continue mocking me?” Priest is now pitch black with anger.
“Getting angry with me will not help at all, Sandile’s father. Just imagine chicken when you eat. This is hunger. It is powerful.”
The following day Priest goes to search for work at the “courthouse”. This is an abandoned building that was used many years ago by the people of Ndlalidlindoda to prosecute the criminals in the area when the residents had had enough of crime and the police were not helping. He arrives at about half past eight. Many people are already here. Some are standing across the road, near Ntuli’s spaza shop. They look at the faded sign above the courthouse: “Jealous Down Butchery”. Underneath are the words “Pork full of surprises”, which tells everyone who sees it that, in its day, this but
chery had served pork lovers quite well.
Priest goes inside the courthouse, which no longer has windows or doors. It is empty, except for two large tables. It shows that the place has not been used in a long time. Everything is dirty and covered with dust. On top of one table are coils of human excrement.
Once everybody has arrived, the job begins. Now the table that has no faeces is taken outside and three men stand over it and face the others. Bongani, who is in charge of Community Development in Gxumani, has some papers in front of him. He hits the table lightly with his hands and announces loudly, “Now, people, listen carefully. I want you to know that we cannot possibly employ all of you as you are so many. Even the grass is not as many as you are.”
Priest feels a pang in his heart as the people laugh at the joke. He can always feel if things are not going to be okay for him. His gut tells him that he is not going to get the job as a road digger.
“A person will be employed because of his luck,” Bongani starts after the laughter has ceased. “We give everybody a chance. So we have decided to give you numbers. If your number is called, you will get the job. If it is not, at least you will have it to yourself.” Bongani smiles again. The seekers of employment are too frightened to laugh now. The moment of truth has come.
A man goes around with a bucket and everyone picks a piece of paper out of it. Priests’ number is 107.
“I think we should start with prayer,” Priest suggests humbly. “I don’t feel confident at all. I always feel like this when I am going to lose.”
“You want us to pray for you?” one woman shouts at Priest. “You are crazy! Can’t you see that if you lose it will be better because our chances will increase?”
“Okay, people!” Bongani intervenes. “You don’t have to argue now. Everybody close your arses tightly as now I am calling the lucky numbers.”
But Bongani is interrupted by another loud, hoarse voice that is not directed at him. “You, beautiful Thembuz of Gubazi. You, who awaited the dog to give birth so that you will eat sour milk.”
Everybody looks in the direction of the man, Sithole. He is talking to his ancestors and he does not give a damn about other people. “Here I am,” he continues. “I ask you, grandmother Nomsompiya, to go to that man and fetch this number 38 I am holding here. If I am not employed today, it will mean you do not exist!” he says sternly. The others laugh. Sithole pays no heed to them. “Ha! I have been slaughtering goats and cattle and nothing happens!”
After ten minutes the people at the courthouse are divided into two groups. Those whose numbers have been called stand on the slope to the left of the building. Priest is among those who were unlucky. They are still standing where they were, facing the employers across the table. Priest looks at Sithole and smiles. His grandmother did not come to pick the number 38 for him.
“As I have told you,” Bongani says, “we cannot employ all of you at the same time. Those who failed today will get employed in future. There is still so much to be done. We are still to build more roads and bridges, and many other things.”
“I think there is a mistake here, Bhungane,” interrupts the loud voice of a short, dark man. Bongani looks at him, astonished. Many people know the man. He is Sokhela.
“There is a number you have forgotten. You left out number 14 by mistake. Can you search for it in your pockets?” Sokhela shouts. He is in the group of the unemployed but is not as worried as they are. The noise of disbelief stirs among the people:
“What is this man saying?”
“Isn’t he mad?”
“Are you talking, my brother?” Bongani asks.
“I was saying that you did not call all the numbers. Number 14 was mistakenly left out.” Sokhela sounds sincere.
Bongani recognises him and frowns. He tries successfully to hide his shock, and shouts, “I don’t understand what you are talking about!”
“It’s me,” Sokhela says. “I was at your house yesterday. Don’t you remember the ‘short-cut’ prayer?”
“Did you or did you not smoke today?” Bongani asks in a loud voice.
“I didn’t smoke. I am perfectly fine.”
“Can somebody who has dagga help this man.”
Other people laugh. Sokhela is on the verge of crying now.
Bongani does not notice Sokhela’s anger. “He is craving for dagga – now his mind is not working straight.”
The listeners laugh again.
Priest goes back home with Sithole. Sithole lives at Phanekeni, a little further from Priest’s home. On their way they talk about their situation. They both have left their families in bad conditions. Food is scarce in their homes. Priest tells Sithole that he is even afraid of going home to his wife. The two men also speak about Sokhela. Sithole tells Priest that Sokhela is not mad at all. In fact, Bongani has also told him about the short-cut prayer Sokhela spoke about. The principal came to him, Sithole, and told him that if he gave him R200, he would be employed. But Sithole refused, relying on his ancestors instead.
When he arrives home, Priest expects to see his wife angry, but she is not. As soon as he has sat down on the sofa, MaDuma enters the living room and takes her seat. She does not ask how it went at the courthouse. She needs no telling. She observes him and then asks, “Is it true that you have been without a job for six years now, Sandile’s father?”
“No. Five years and four months. In fact four years if you count my working days at the farm.”
“Whatever.”
“I think this is Satan’s doing. He is tempting us. He wants to see how much we love our God.”
MaDuma’s voice is calm. “I have made up my mind. I am going to see the sangoma.”
“You know that I am a priest, MakaSandile. How can you do such a thing?”
“I will do it,” MaDuma’s voice is low. She is determined.
“MakaSandile, please!” Priest starts to beg. He knows that if his wife has set her mind on something then nothing can stop her. “What are people going to say?”
“I don’t care what people say. In times like this,” she starts sternly, “one needs things that are tangible.”
“Oh God! I am not going to be promoted to a bishop.”
MaDuma leaves the following morning. Because she has no money to pay for a taxi, she walks. She leaves home at about six and arrives at Khumalo’s at half past seven. Khumalo is a Zionist. He is a healer who uses both herbs and holy water. He prays to Jesus and the ancestors. His home is situated near Juteni Road at Ndlangamandla. He has a big white house and a short kneel-and-pray hut, which he uses for consultation.
When she arrives, MaDuma is tired. She goes to sit on a bench in front of the house. There is a young lady already sitting here. She tells MaDuma that there is somebody inside. As they speak, the door opens and another woman comes out. The one who is on the bench stands to leave and MaDuma realises the two women are leaving together.
When she is called to enter, MaDuma spends a minute admiring the room she has entered. The floor is plastered and anointed with red polish. There are two calabashes where Khumalo is kneeling. On his right there are different herbs that MaDuma does not know. She likes the smell in the room.
Khumalo is wearing a gold shawl with black spots, the colour of a tiger. He burns the incense when MaDuma has told him she wants him to foretell for her.
“Hhethe!” Khumalo sneezes.
“We agree!” MaDuma says loudly.
“I see suffering!”
“We agree!”
“I see the father of the home is in trouble.”
“We agree!”
“I see his head almost breaking in pain.”
MaDuma keeps quiet.
“No. It’s work. He needs work!”
“We agree.”
“Hhethe!”
“Great Kings.”
MaDuma arrives home in the afternoon. She is hungry, tired and angry. She knows there is no food so she does not bother to go to the kitchen. Instead, she goes to her bedroom an
d locks herself inside, having told her husband that she is not to be disturbed. She wants to take a nap to clear her head because what Khumalo told her disturbs her very much. At first she decides not to tell her husband, but then she changes her mind. Now she is sleeping to gather her strength.
It is exactly ten past five in the afternoon when MaDuma wakes up and goes to join her husband in the living room. Priest is watching the Siswati news on SABC1. But what he likes more is about to begin. Being unemployed has caused Priest to have more time to himself than he wants. As a member of the unemployed community, Priest has developed a great interest in watching soap operas, especially the one that is about to show – Days of Our Lives.
MaDuma seats herself on the sofa and keeps quiet. Three minutes pass and nobody says a word to the other. MaDuma goes to the television set and chokes it off. It is old and the two parts are balanced against each other. Although there is an old wall unit in the house, the television is placed on a sofa, to make it “comfortable”, as Priest always says.
MaDuma goes back to her seat and says nothing. Priest smiles to himself when he realises his wife is hunting for a fight. He is not about to give in to her whims so easily. Two more minutes pass and nobody says a word. It is as though they are in some kind of a competition in which whoever speaks first will lose. MaDuma has won once, when she turned off the television. But she wants to win again and again and again.
When these two parents were still so deeply in love, they used to play a “gazing game” in which they looked at each other closely without uttering a sound. If one of them laughed, the other would win. MaDuma wanted them to always play this game because she always won and she liked winning. As time progressed, she forced her husband to bet when they played. Whoever lost, which always happened to be Priest, would buy a drink for the other. Sometimes they bought the drink before the game began. If this was done, MaDuma insisted on buying Coke because it was her favourite and she knew she would win.
Hunger Eats a Man Page 11